


Hands On Experience

by zooeyscigar



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, allusions to recovery from amputation, flint's shaved head, post amputation and miranda's death, sometime in s3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 07:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zooeyscigar/pseuds/zooeyscigar
Summary: look, Idk.it all startedhere.I just couldn't believe we'd never seen Flint touch his own shaved head until that moment in the second gif, and then I had to write something where Silver was allowed to touch it.That's it, that's the fic.





	Hands On Experience

The first time he attempted such a feat, John’s heart was in his mouth. 

Captain Flint was bent over his desk, staring blank-eyed at the charts he’d been poring over all evening. The lamps were low, the sway of the ship was lulling them both, and it was time to give up for the night. 

But Flint looked to be locked into place, possibly staring down his demons, in need of something to bring him back to the present, and John couldn’t reach his shoulder without thumping and clumping on the new leg enough to irritate. 

So, he simply reached across the desk and rested his hand lightly on the crown of Flint’s skull, saying, “Rest. We’ll continue in the morning.”

Flint, to his credit, nearly didn’t flinch. Then he stilled to an uncanny extent, eyes slipping closed, breath almost non-existent, certainly not audible. 

Disconcerted but grateful to still have his hand, John pulled back, the stubble scraping and tickling his palm, then turned to leave the cabin. 

“Mmfph,” was all the captain said in response. “’Night.”

John’s palm tingled, hot as his cheeks, for minutes after - all the way to his bunk. 

~~

They’d touched before, obviously. They must have. 

Flint had touched him, at least. In violence, certainly. Also in pity.

John tried hard not to remember the rasp of his own breath against the edge of a knife. Or the stolid, supportive way Flint stood by him as he walked for the first time in his boot. Much of his convalescence was a fever dream though, so John had very few memories of his time staying in the captain’s cabin. If there had been anything else, he was glad he didn't remember.

But this...

John had never had cause or occasion - or inclination, really - to touch his captain until now. 

And now he couldn’t stop wanting it. 

Shoulders were a safe bet, even a back, but they didn’t provide skin-on-skin contact. The only place there was skin enough to touch that wouldn’t be inappropriate was Flint’s head. And even that...

John wasn’t sure he should risk it a second time.

But then they were standing on either side of the captain’s desk again, charts and nighttime silence between them, and he couldn’t help himself.

He had no earthly reason, no way of justifying his actions. They weren’t anywhere near finished with their work and Flint was present in his body this time, his mind clearly calculating the distances his eyes were traveling over the charts. John’s touch would be an imposition at best, an insult at worst.

And then Flint sighed and hung his head, fatigue of body and mind showing more clearly than John could remember seeing. “I can’t see any way around this course of action.”

“You don’t have to. We’ll manage it.” 

And John watched his hand drag over the back of Flint’s head, heard a soft noise that landed somewhere between surprise and approval. Felt his heart bang in his chest. 

“John.”

It didn’t sound like a warning but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. John began to pull his hand away, but Flint raised his head slightly and leaned forward, keeping his bare skull directly under John’s palm. 

Something between a sigh and a grunt, something that almost sounded like a purr, emerged from Flint, and John stopped breathing as he rubbed his hand slowly back and forth over Flint’s head. 

The shorn hair was slightly longer than stubble and felt very different going with the grain than going against. The contrasting sensations invited repetition. John had never noticed Flint touching his own head, but he had a feeling that if  _his_ hair was this short, he’d be stroking his own head nonstop.

As it was, when Flint finally leaned back and raised his head fully, John stopped only because his plaything was out of reach, not because he’d had enough.

“Trying to placate me?” Flint glanced at him for only a second, then looked back down at the charts. 

“No, Captain.” John’s voice was hoarse so he cleared his throat but could think of no safe explanation.

After a moment Flint nodded without looking up and muttered, “Mm. Relaxing.”

John shrugged by way of saying ‘you’re welcome’ and mumbled, “Good.”

And that was it. Flint brought up another problem that needed to be dealt with, and John assured him it would work out. A short time later, still without making eye contact, they bade each other goodnight.

And John could breathe deeply again.

~~

Slowly, it became a thing that happened, in the evening, in Flint’s cabin, when he was too tired to think. It felt to John like Flint was allowing himself a minute free from everything but the soothing sensations on his skull, and John was glad to be able to give it to him.

Especially because Flint seemed to turn into a contented cat when John, well... petted his head. 

The moment John knew neither of them were coming back from this was when it happened in broad daylight.

They were tucked out of the way, sitting next to each other on supply barrels, quietly discussing their options, and Flint, elbows on knees, just swung around, leaning into John’s space until his forehead was pressed against John’s upper arm. 

John froze and looked quickly around, but no one was in sight. Flint made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and John grunted in agreement. They’d been talking in circles for the past four hours about their next steps forward and they’d just ended up back at the beginning again. 

Flint shook his head, rubbing his forehead against John’s shoulder, and sighed. There was a moment of silent stillness, expectation hanging heavy in the air, and John finally moved to rest his hand on Flint’s head. 

Another sigh, deeper, reaching further into his soul. Flint let his shoulders slump, let his head press heavy against John’s arm - enough that John had to brace himself against the weight.

So far, he’d been studiously specific about where on Flint’s head he touched: the crown and top only, never the forehead, temples or nape. But the way Flint was responding to John’s touch, tilting his head as a kitty does to get scritches in the most needed places, Flint seemed to need John’s hand over every inch of his skull. 

As John obliged, the purr came back, Flint’s exhales warming the fabric over John’s arm, and the longer the petting went on, the more liberties John took, simply because they felt good to him as well. 

John’s hand was broad enough to palm most of Flint’s skull, and pressing fingertips against bone made it feel tiny, fragile. Something in need of protection. Pressing on certain points brought soft moans from Flint, which made John bolder in his touch, until, a short time later, Flint seemed to have fully melted against John’s side. 

Unsure if his captain was even awake anymore, John stilled and just held Flint’s nape in his hand, feeling a bit like Atlas. Or more appropriately, Heracles.

He let his mind wander, enjoying the animal comfort of this closeness - this kindness that he was somehow allowed to show his captain. Soon, with the blurred and feverish dreams of being cared for during recovery resounding through him, he lost focus for a bit and found himself pressing gentle lips to Flint’s crown. When Flint exhaled softly in acknowledgement of the light touch, John pulled away, skittish, certain he’d gone too far and would never touch Flint’s...  _anything_  again.

Dragging his head back into his own control but still leaning over, elbows back on knees, Flint chuckled low in his throat. “Thanks,” he murmured, nearly too quiet for John to hear.

“The least I could do,” John rasped, mouth dry.

“Reciprocity, I suppose. Still...” Flint wiggled his ringed fingers in a dismissive way. “Appreciated.”

“Recip--” John cut off his question as the ghost of strong arms around his shoulders - holding him tight as he wept in pain at Howell’s ministrations - gripped him and closed this throat.

_Oh._

None of this was new to Flint.  _Christ._

John was struck with wonder and a little fear at how much physical comfort Flint must have provided during John’s convalescence which he might never remember.

His body seemed to understand, however. 

The urge to touch Flint suddenly made a whole lot more sense. 

“I suppose I should thank you for...”

“Don’t. It wasn’t asked for, simply necessary. I would have done the same for Billy, or DeGroot, or Ga-” 

Flint swallowed the end of his sentence and looked away, blinking hard. The way he caught himself meant John would never press, but something about the statement up until then rang falsely. A little ‘the lady doth protest too much,’ he thought.

Except for Gates. John could see Flint cradling him when he was in pain, but maybe that was because he didn’t have to use much imagination to get there.

“Still. Appreciated,” John echoed, watching Flint’s mouth pull to the side at his words coming back to him. 

“You didn’t at the time...” Flint said good-naturedly.

John grinned, despite feeling like his insides were being strung out on a line. “It’s unfair to blame me for things I can’t recall.”

Flint looked down at his hands, which were fidgeting with one of his rings. “How much  _do_ you recall?”

“Nothing much at all, honestly. The fever had me for a long time, and after, the pain gripped me so tightly that thought was a faraway dream.”

“And feeling?”

John shook his head. “Shock, I suppose. I felt as though I was numb everywhere but the stump for weeks. Why?”

Flint’s expression darkened. John hadn’t realized how fair and relaxed it had been until it was no longer. “Then your lips, just now...”

John shrugged, face reddening in shame. “Forgive my trespass-”

Glancing sharply at John, Flint interrupted. “No, I mean, that wasn’t familiar?” John stared. Flint opened his mouth, then looked away, eyebrow cocked to the horizon. “It wasn’t repayment?”

“I never...” John felt weightless, dizzy. “ _You_  never...” The bottom of his stomach dropped out. The outlandish dream of being cared for that had floated into his mind earlier, it wasn't true,  _was it?_

“When I was a child, sick in bed,” Flint’s voice took on a narrative tone as he continued to scan the sea. “My grandmother would check my temperature with a kiss to my forehead.” 

John had completely lost his footing in the conversation and only made an incoherent sound as Flint’s eyes cut to him and then away again. “The habit stuck, I suppose.”

“You... I...” John’s face felt red hot, and for once in his life, the words wouldn’t come. Could _Captain Flint_   be so...?

But yes, it had happened. He could  _feel_  the memory of it. The kindness, the care...

_Memory, not dream._

Finally, his pride pricked him to say, “I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re decidedly not,” Flint said archly. “But neither am I, and you just...” His fingers brushed the spot where John’s lips had been mere minutes before. 

“I wasn’t thinking. I was-”

“John." He stilled. They both did. "Why are you up in arms when I’ve told you I appreciated it?”

“Because I...” John let his mouth hang open, hoping the words would come. But words required understanding before they would form, and he was at a loss. 

Flint's heavy sigh sounded tired. “All this time I assumed you’d remembered. My hands in your hair, my words in your ear, my lips on your forehead... So you returned the...” Flint shifted on his barrel, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “But you just... what? You simply wanted to touch me?”

“...You seemed to need it.” John shrugged, awed at how little he understood.

“I did. I missed you. What we'd...”

_Shared. Yes._

Though John had spent all this time not believing it had happened. And ever since...

“But you never...” John reached out for Flint’s arm but pulled back immediately, an unintended illustration of his meaning.

“Like I said, you hadn’t been able to agree to anything, let alone ask for it. But now... I figured you were done being touched.”

“When in reality, I’d like it to _start_ on my end.” John smiled softly, heart once again in his throat, as Flint allowed a tiny, private smile to wink in and out of existence. 

“Very well.” He turned toward John again, but all he did was take a curl between his fingers and tug on it like a spring, letting it recoil before tugging on it again. He looked up at John’s face, eyes impossibly soft, and asked, “What do you like?”

“Why don’t you do what comes naturally, and I’ll let you know if I don’t like it.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Flint rumbled as he buried his face in the crook of John's neck. Lips against collarbone, Flint added, "As long as you keep touching my head."

John had never been so happy to oblige his captain. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was almost a tumblr ficlet but then it got long enough to post here.  
> But [come say hi on tumblr!](https://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com/)


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